


hæftling

by annabagnell



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Fawnlock, M/M, Mpreg, graphic depiction of birth
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-07
Updated: 2019-05-07
Packaged: 2020-02-27 18:23:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,425
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18744571
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/annabagnell/pseuds/annabagnell
Summary: “Nobody’s been able to get close enough to the fawn to do any sort of exam,” said one voice. Sherlock understood some of the words, enough at least to know they were talking about him. “It looks huge. Can’t be far off.”Two humans appeared in the hallway, both coming to a stop in front of the fence. Sherlock’s heart thudded in his throat and he resisted the urge to bolt to the other side of the pen, knowing that he wouldn’t be any further away there and that he’d only exhaust himself in doing so. “Jesus, you’re right,” said the other human, shaking his head. “Gotta be within the week, for sure. Poor thing.”Sherlock lowered his gaze to where they stared - his stomach, engorged and full with the baby he was carrying.





	hæftling

**Author's Note:**

> This was a commissioned work for SJ. They wanted Sherlock in a sort of 'April the Giraffe' scenario - people waiting and waiting for him to go into labor, and then going through a long labor in captivity/on camera. I took some creative liberties and made Sherlock a fawn, firstly because I'm a slut for fawnlock and secondly because I thought it added to the captivity side of the story! As always, enjoy. 
> 
> "hæftling" is an Old English noun meaning 'one who is taken or seized.'

The voices and sound of footsteps drawing closer made Sherlock’s ears flicker and flatten back against his head. His heart rate, which had just barely calmed while he’d been left alone, picked back up as his heart beat rapidly in his chest. He was already pressed into the furthest corner of the cinder block room, feeling vulnerable nevertheless as he had nothing to use for cover, nothing to hide behind and no way to escape. He sank into an inelegant crouch and watched the hallway through the chain link panels as the voices grew closer. 

 

“Nobody’s been able to get close enough to it to do any sort of exam,” said one voice, now distinguishable as female. Sherlock understood some of the words, enough at least to know they were talking about him. “It looks huge. Can’t be far off.” 

 

Two humans appeared in the hallway, both coming to a stop in front of the fence. Sherlock’s heart thudded in his throat and he resisted the urge to bolt to the other side of the pen, knowing that he wouldn’t be any further away there and that he’d only exhaust himself in doing so. “Jesus, you’re right,” said the other human, shaking his head. “Gotta be within the week, for sure. Poor thing.” 

 

Sherlock lowered his gaze to where they stared - his stomach, engorged and full with the baby he was carrying. Had carried for months now, through the winter where he’d thought his semi-hibernation had left him with more fat reserves than usual - until spring came, and his winter coat shed away to reveal an unmistakable firm curve. It was the baby that had resulted in his capture - he had been too slow to run from the humans when they surprised him in his burrow that morning. 

 

A surge of protective instinct overtook him and he bared his teeth in a low growl, the long fingers of one hand splaying over his middle. The humans took a surprised step back before shaking their heads with a laugh and stepping closer to the chain link fence again. “It’s alright,” the man said, threading his fingers through the wire. “You’re safe here. We’re gonna make sure your baby is safe, too.” 

 

“It can’t understand you,” the woman said, glancing back at Sherlock. “They’re not that smart.” 

 

“Hmm,” said the man, frowning. “I think...hold on.” He reached for the folder clipped to the fence and opened it, reading down the page. “Yeah, they scanned the chip when it came in. This was a fawn from the herd my dad helped raise, when I was a kid. I think…” His eyebrows rose. “Wait. Sherlock?” 

 

Sherlock heard his name and his heart skipped a beat in surprise. Some of the tension eased from his body and he rose up a little, ears flicking forward. 

 

“Oh, my god. Hey. Hang on.” The man shoved the folder back into its hanger and fumbled with the lock on the fence, swinging the door open and ignoring the confused sounds the woman made as she stood outside. “Hey, Sherlock. It’s me. It’s John. Do you remember me?” 

 

John. A name Sherlock hadn’t heard in a decade or better, and a face he hadn’t seen since it lost the chubbiness of boyhood and became the face of a man. “John?” He said, his own voice rusty and unfamiliar. 

 

“It can talk?” Squawked the woman, but she was ignored. 

 

“Sherlock,” John said again, stepping closer, carefully and with both hands raised. “Hey. Do you remember me?” 

 

“Yes,” Sherlock said, memories flooding back. “John. My - friend.” 

 

“Yes, your friend,” John said, and his face broke into a wide smile. “Your friend. It’s okay, Sherlock, you’re safe here. I’m taking care of you. You and your baby,” he said, stopping several feet away from Sherlock and gesturing to Sherlock’s heavy belly. 

 

“Baby,” Sherlock repeated, trying to remember all the words John had taught him, years ago when they were both young, when John’s father had been supervising the research being done on Sherlock’s home herd. He had discovered that fawn were capable of learning language, and had chosen Sherlock and some other young fawn for a research trial, where human children interacted with fawn to socialize them. Sherlock and John had been fast friends, playing together for hours and hours every day, until one day the researchers never came for Sherlock - or any of the others. 

 

“Yeah, your baby,” John said gently, and closed the space between them with a few careful steps. He reached out and put his hand next to Sherlock’s, on the warm, firm skin of his round stomach. “You...you do know you’re having a baby?” 

 

“Yes,” Sherlock said, wrinkling his nose. Obviously. He might not know all the words John was using, but he knew he was going to be a mother soon. “My baby.” He made a gentle rocking motion with his arms, and John nodded. 

 

“Yeah, okay. I...wow,” John said, glancing over his shoulder at the woman who still stood dumbfounded by the door. “I didn’t think I would see you again.” 

 

“Why?” Sherlock said, but the question wasn’t specific - he had a lot of unanswered questions for the human man stood in front of him. 

 

John seemed to understand. “I know,” he said, and took Sherlock’s hand in his. Sherlock’s fur slid smoothly over the hairless skin of John’s palm. “I’ll be back soon. I can explain more then.” He squeezes Sherlock’s hand reassuringly as he turned around to look at the woman standing outside. “I have some paperwork I’ll need to square away before I can do an exam, in light of this,” he said, looking bemusedly at Sherlock. “Stay here. Rest. For the baby,” he said, making the same rocking motion with his arms that Sherlock had made before. “Be back soon.” 

 

* * *

 

John had left the pen and come back a short time later, arms full of blankets and thin hardback books, as well as a sheaf of papers and a backpack. He dropped the latter items unceremoniously to the floor of the pen, which was a soft sawdust, deeply bedded. Sherlock had sank to the floor shortly after John left, some of the raw fear having abated at the sight of his old friend. He still didn’t feel safe, but he didn’t think that he was in immediate danger here. Besides, his back was hurting, and he hadn’t eaten anything yet that day.

 

John sat down next to Sherlock in the sawdust, rummaging around in the backpack and presenting Sherlock with an apple, a clear container with yellow squares in it, and a bottle Sherlock recognized as containing water. He took a long drink of the water right away, feeling immediately better. “Cheese,” John said, holding out the clear container. “And you know what that is.” He handed Sherlock the apple.

 

“Thank,” Sherlock said after a long, thoughtful pause. 

 

“That’s right. ‘Thank you’ is the whole phrase,” John corrected gently, nodding. “I brought you some books to read, too. For you to brush up on your English, if you want.” 

 

Sherlock was bursting with questions, but his hunger had the best of him. He ate everything John brought - the yellow cheese, the apple, and the water - before he spoke again. “Why?” 

 

John did his best to explain. The funding for the research had run out, after Baskerville Animal Research had been exposed for other animal trials of dubious ethics. They had released Sherlock’s home herd back into the wild and stopped monitoring them. Only once the Board had been restructured and BAR had been repurposed as Baskerville Animal Preserve had the facility re-opened, using their considerable land preserve to raise endangered animals in captivity, and conducting ethically sound research on the surrounding natural wildlife. Sherlock, it seemed, had been captured by their team in order to learn more about fawn biology, specifically gestation and birth. 

 

“We won’t have much longer to monitor your gestation,” John said, nodding at Sherlock’s swollen belly. “But we’ve learned enough about fawn birth to know we can help you, and make sure your baby is healthy when it’s born.” 

 

“Soon,” Sherlock said, stroking his belly. “Baby soon.” 

 

“Yeah, we figured as much,” John said with a chuckle. “You were supposed to be brought in a month ago, but the field team lost track of you and didn’t find you until this morning. They thought they might be too late, actually,” he said. “Based on their notes they thought you were due to fawn sometime in the next week. When they couldn’t find you they thought you might have hidden yourself away to have the baby.” 

 

Sherlock wondered how these humans had known about him and his baby, how they’d managed to follow him for so long without him noticing. He didn’t have the words to ask that question, so instead he pointed to the stack of thin books that John had brought in. “Oh! Right. These are for you, if you can still read. If you can’t anymore, I think I can work that into my schedule here. You’re my number one priority now,” he said, smiling at Sherlock. He picked up the top book, its spine bound with gold patterned tape and the cover colorful and bright. “Can you read the title?”

 

Sherlock wracked his brain trying to remember how to say the letters, and how to say the words the letters spelled. “The...poky...little...puppy,” he said haltingly, the syllables broken and the words unfamiliar, but the ability was there. John made a pleased noise and smiled at him. 

 

“Exactly. I think you’ll remember more than you think you will,” he said, putting the book back on the small stack. “I’ll leave them here, and you can read them when I’m away. I can bring more, too, when you’re done reading those.” 

 

“Okay,” Sherlock said, nodding at the little stack. He wondered just how much he would remember from the brief time he’d spent with John all those years ago. 

 

“I also brought you these,” John said, unfolding a blanket and draping it over Sherlock’s lap. “I’m going to get you a bed, too - something nice and big, and soft. And pillows for your back and belly.” 

 

Sherlock smoothed the wrinkles out of the blanket. He remembered being able to carry on a conversation with John, when they were both children, but now the best he could do was piece together the words John said and hope he understood enough to get by, and use the meager English he still knew to respond.

 

“I want to do an exam on you,” John continued. He must have recognized Sherlock’s blank expression for what it was, because he continued to explain. “Look at you and the baby, to make sure you are healthy. See if you need more food, or a doctor. Which is what I am,” John said with a smile. “A doctor, here to take care of you.” 

 

“Doctor,” Sherlock said. “Your father.” 

 

“Yes!” John said, nodding. “My dad was also a doctor. He taught me, too.” 

 

Sherlock processed for a moment, and then leaned forward to take both of John’s hands and press them to his belly. “Baby,” he said. “Exam.” 

 

John laughed. It was a good sound, not entirely unlike the laugh he’d had when he was a boy - just richer and fuller now. “Thank you,” he said, keeping his hands where Sherlock had put them. “I need to do more than just this, but this is a good start. Let’s have a feel, shall we?” He moved closer and pressed in gently with his fingers, feeling all around Sherlock’s belly. It was uncomfortable but not painful, so Sherlock stayed as still as he could.

 

He could feel his baby shifting under the pressure of John’s hands, moving as if to get away from the gentle intrusions. John was murmuring as he felt around, brow furrowed in mild confusion. Sherlock realized what he was trying to figure out and took his hands, guiding his old friend helpfully. 

 

Sherlock put John’s hands on the top curve of his belly and pressed in. “Foot,” he said, showing John the little limb. Next be cupped John’s palm and pressed it near his navel. “Bottom,” he said, able to feel the bulge of his baby’s rump pressing outward. Finally he slid John’s hands down toward his groin, seeking out the hard, blunt curve of the baby’s skull. “Head,” he said, exhaling a long breath when John’s fingers pressed in, his fingertips prodding sore, stretched muscles. 

 

“Thank you,” John said quietly, rubbing the furry bottom of Sherlock’s belly when he was satisfied. Sherlock couldn’t help but lean into the tender touch a little - the gentle rub soothed some of the ache in the bowl of his pelvis. “Baby seems like it’s in the right position for birth. Maybe not as close to being born as I thought, though. It’s not as low down as I expected.” 

 

“Not soon?” Sherlock asked, rubbing his side softly. Within him the baby stirred, disturbed by the unfamiliar poking and prodding, active now when usually it would be sleeping and still at this time of day. 

 

“Still soon, I think,” John said, though he sounded less sure than before. “Baby feels big. I’d like to do an ultrasound to get better measurements, but I think you’ve got a healthy, growing baby in there.” He patted Sherlock’s full sides with a smile, one the fawn returned. 

 

John brought a dinner and a cot to Sherlock’s pen a few hours later, and as Sherlock was eating he set the bed up against the back wall. He helped Sherlock lay down and fitted soft pillows around his belly and behind his back, and then laid the blanket over him. “Comfortable?” He asked, eyes full of concern. 

 

“Good,” Sherlock said in reply, glad that the ache in his back went away a little with the pillows there to help. Despite having been in the pen all day, and hardly having moved, he still felt exhausted, both physically and mentally. 

 

“Good,” John replied, looking satisfied. “I’ll be watching you through that,” he said, pointing to a black circle high on the wall in a corner of Sherlock’s pen. “If you need anything, all you have to do is wave at the camera and I’ll see it and come running. If you think the baby is coming, wave right away.” 

 

Sherlock was too tired to try to ask how John could see him through the circle, so he nodded and stayed laying on his cot. He was comfortable and warm, and felt a little safer now than he had that morning, at least. Knowing John was watching him helped. He let his friend leave the pen, and watched the hallway until he couldn’t hear John’s footsteps anymore. Within minutes, the exhausted fawn was deeply asleep. 

 

* * *

 

Sherlock had been in the Baskerville Animal Preserve Hospital for a week, and showed no more signs of labor than he had the morning they’d caught him. John’s exam and the subsequent bloodwork and ultrasound had showed a textbook fawn pregnancy, based on what they knew - except for the baby’s expected arrival date, which had come and gone with no fanfare. 

 

Sherlock had read all the children’s books that John had brought, each one bringing back more and more of the English Sherlock had learned as a child. While his vocabulary was rusty, Sherlock was able to communicate with John and the other caretakers - though he vastly preferred John to take care of him, and would hardly speak to anyone else. “You don’t have to pretend you can’t speak to Sarah, you know,” John said, dragging the measuring tape around Sherlock’s middle and writing the number on his chart. “She knows you can talk, and she knows you’re just being a goose when you ignore her.” 

 

“Don’t like her,” Sherlock said. “Cold hands. Not John.” 

 

“Yes, well, I can’t hold a chocolate bar for more than a minute without it melting on my fingers, so maybe cold hands isn’t so bad,” John groused, but he was smiling anyway. Something about being around Sherlock again made him very happy. “Feeling like having a baby today, by any chance?” 

 

“Want to,” Sherlock said grumpily, stretching his spine to either side and wincing as he did so. “Tired of being pregnant. Hurts.” 

 

“Yeah, I imagine it does,” John said sympathetically, patting Sherlock’s belly. He was starting to look a bit threadbare around the middle, his skin so stretched that the fur looked almost patchy and thin around the navel. John picked up the soft bristle brush and started grooming the fawn, flicking away sawdust and bits of dirt that had stuck in his fur. He was especially gentle around the more hairless bits, not wanting to irritate the fawn’s sensitive skin. 

 

“How long when the baby comes?” Sherlock asked, leaning back a little so John could brush his thighs and the bottom of his belly. 

 

“How long until, you mean?” John asked. “Not sure. Expected it would be here by now, really,” he mused. “Can’t be much longer now. We estimated the date of your last heat based on what you told us, and unless we’ve got the conception date wrong, this baby should be here any day now.” 

 

Sherlock parted his legs so John could brush the furry insides of his thighs. He hadn’t been able to groom himself there in quite some time, but thankfully John was willing to brush his fur daily. This made up for the intrusive exams he had to endure - John had wanted to do an internal exam to make sure everything was preparing for the birth, but Sherlock had flat-out refused until John promised him extra cheese cubes and daily brushings. The exam hadn’t even been that bad, in the end, but Sherlock really liked cheese cubes. 

 

However, he was bored. He’d been occupying his time in the wild by scavenging for his food, which had become an all-day ordeal before his capture - finding enough food to sustain himself and his baby took a lot of time. He’d also been building a nest for himself and his baby, something warm and soft and safe to give birth in. Now that he was in the pen, his food and water were brought to him, and he had a comfortable bed for himself - so he had nothing to do but read. He’d devoured the first stack of children’s books John had brought, and the ones after that. He was now reading books with more complex stories and words - but the subject material was unfamiliar to him, and he had trouble focusing on the story. 

 

He’d taken to crooning quietly to his baby, laying on his bed or sitting cross-legged in the deep sawdust and singing to his belly. Sometimes it seemed as though the baby was responding to its mother’s words, moving a little when Sherlock spoke or sang. “Come soon, little one,” he murmured, tracing his fingertips over the deep brown lines that had appeared around his navel and along his sides, little marks that itched and smarted. 

  
  
  


John wanted to do another ultrasound later that week, to make sure the baby was still healthy. “Sometimes if the baby is sick, it doesn’t come,” he had explained to the fawn. “I want to make sure it’s all okay, and that it just needs some more time to finish cooking.” 

 

“Finish cooking,” Sherlock repeated, laying back on the exam table. 

 

“It’s a silly phrase,” John said, reaching for the ultrasound gel. “Means baby’s not quite ready yet, maybe. That’s what I’m checking now.” He spread the gel on Sherlock’s furry belly, adding more as his fur matted together. “Damn. I’ll have to help you wash after this. Your furry tummy is hard to ultrasound without using a litre of gel.” 

 

The half-laid-back position wasn’t doing wonders for Sherlock’s spine, but he stayed as still as he could manage. “How do you know if the baby is okay?” He asked as John pressed the wand into his belly. 

 

“I can listen to it’s heart, and sort of see its body parts. I haven’t seen a lot of fawn foetuses, but I can compare your baby to the ones I’ve seen.” John looked at the black and white screen with concentration. “Do you want to know if it’s a boy or a girl?” 

 

Sherlock’s eyebrows raised. “You know?” 

 

“I do now,” John said, carefully turning the screen to face away from Sherlock. “I can tell you if you want to know.” 

 

Sherlock was unsure. He had wondered whether his baby would be a buck or a doe, but thought he would have to wait until it was born to find out which. He shook his head after a moment’s contemplation. “No, I don’t. Will know soon.” He patted the top of his belly. 

 

John smiled kindly. “Yeah, you will. Soon enough. Sherlock, it looks totally healthy to me,” he said, spreading more gel around and looking at another few angles. “The heartbeat is strong, it’s reacting to stimuli, everything looks normal. I think your baby just really, really likes it in there,” he said with a sympathetic smile. “Maybe you’ve just got a baby who isn’t in a hurry to meet you.” 

 

“Want it  _ out _ ,” Sherlock said, letting John wipe the gel from his furry stomach. 

 

“It’ll come out soon enough.” John made a face. “I really can’t get this cleaned off. Do you mind a bath? Might help your back feel better, actually,” he said.

 

“Bath?” Sherlock asked, struggling to sit up around his enormous middle. 

 

John helped pull Sherlock to sit upright. “Oh, sorry. Erm, wash off? You sit in a big tub of warm water, and get clean. Like a river but better.” 

 

“Will try it,” Sherlock agreed, somewhat reluctantly. John hadn’t hurt him on purpose yet, and this didn’t sound so scary. 

 

John led Sherlock through the hallways. Sherlock waddled slowly, his speed hampered by his late pregnancy. “You poor thing,” John said, helping Sherlock sit on a bench while he ran water into the bath tub. “I think it’s past time for that baby to be here.” 

 

“Yes,” Sherlock agreed, winded and sore. He sank gratefully into the warm water of the bath once he saw that it was safe - just water, after all. The pain in his back and hips eased almost immediately, and he groaned in relief. “Bath is very good,” he sighed, sinking deeper into the warm water. 

 

He made John drain and re-fill the tub twice before finally agreeing to go back to his pen. “Want a bath every day,” he said on the way back, his steps swaying from side to side. “Baby needs to be healthy.” 

 

“And the bath keeps the baby healthy, hmm?” John asked with a smile. Sherlock nodded seriously in response. “Well then, I think we can arrange it.”

 

* * *

 

The days dragged by, and Sherlock kept growing. “The fawn we’ve tracked before have had gestations lasting between 280 and 294 days,” John said, showing Sherlock the calendar. “Now, our data could be incorrect, because we don’t know exactly when conception occurred. But we can estimate. And we are estimating you at...well, 298 days,” he said, frowning a little. “Which is...a little long.” 

 

“Big baby, maybe takes longer to grow?” Sherlock asked, leaning against the wall. His belly was enormous, resting on his thighs and looking ready to burst open. The sparse areas were looking even more hairless than before, large patches of his swollen middle now shiny and nearly bare of fur. Sherlock couldn’t remember ever seeing a fawn with a belly as big as his, except for the one fawn that had had two fawnlings at the same time. Even he had had his babies early, before the ninth month of his pregnancy was over. Sherlock was beyond that. 

 

“It shouldn’t, really,” John said, carefully smearing cool cream over the hairless patches of Sherlock’s belly. “Fawn babies should all take about the same time to grow. And yours has grown just fine,” he assured his friend. “It’s just taking a while to decide to come out. Those are a very good sign, though,” he said, nodding his head toward Sherlock’s chest, where the fawn was rubbing tender new breasts. 

 

“Why does all of it have to hurt?” Sherlock asked, massaging the aching flesh on his chest. He’d woken that morning with his chest swollen and full and sore. His nipples had been pearled with milky translucent drops, and had leaked for a little while but for now seemed content to just smart and ache at irregular intervals. 

 

“I don’t have a good answer to that question,” John said with a sad smile. “I don’t think there’s much evolutionary advantage to pregnancy hurting this much. Though to be fair I don’t think it’s quite this bad for everyone. You’re a rare case.” 

 

“Lucky,” Sherlock sighed, feeling tired and achy and stuffed full of baby. He could hardly stand without help, had to be brushed and bathed because his belly was just too big to manage it on his own, and now John had to wipe dried milk from the tender skin of his budding breasts, because they were leaking with milk for a baby that hadn’t even come yet. 

 

“Look, if this weekend comes and goes and still no baby, we’ll make it come out ourselves,” John promised. “I can give you a shot that will make your body push the baby out. I’d rather not, unless it’s a last resort. We haven’t had to induce labor in a fawn yet, so it’s a little risky.” 

 

“Just want to have my baby,” Sherlock said, looking down at his hugely swollen belly. “Why is it taking so long?” 

 

“I don’t know,” John said slowly. “By our count you were overdue when we brought you in. You’re just...more overdue now.” He finished rubbing the cream into Sherlock’s swollen belly and smoothed the sparse hairs back into place. “There. Feel any better?”

 

“Itch not as bad,” Sherlock said, heaving a sigh. He watched his already stretched taut skin stretch even further to accommodate filling his lungs, and felt like his body had to reach a limit soon. “Still hurts.” 

 

“I bet it does,” John said sympathetically. “I don’t think it’ll be much longer now. Your milk’s coming in, that’s a sure sign that baby is on the way.” 

 

“Hope so,” Sherlock said, holding his belly tenderly. He wasn’t sure how much more pregnant he could get, and he just wanted to meet his baby. It couldn’t be long now. 

 

* * *

 

The weekend passed, and when John had said goodnight to Sherlock on Sunday evening, he promised that when he came back in the morning, he would be bringing the medicine that would help Sherlock have his baby at last. Sherlock was full of nervous energy when he laid down on his cot, and he laid awake for hours before finally managing to drift off.

 

A clap of thunder woke Sherlock from his fitful sleep. He blinked awake and it took longer than usual for him to realize that there were no lights on - not even the ones that were usually on in the middle of the night. Even the light on the circle - the camera, Sherlock remembered - was off. He realized too that there was no sound other than his breathing. Everything was totally silent. 

 

He sat up slowly, wincing as he did. His hips ground painfully in their sockets, and he felt the blunt curve of the baby’s head pressing downward, as it had for the past week. It gave him a sort of urgent, sick feeling low in his stomach, one that made him want to arch his back and bear down to relieve. His swollen breasts rested heavy on his belly, aching and prickling with milk for his baby. 

 

“John?” he called out, lifting an arm and waving in the direction of the camera, even though he couldn’t see it. John had said he would always be watching him through that, and would be there if Sherlock called for him. He sat quietly, feeling slightly nauseous with panic, and waited for John to come. 

 

Minutes passed, and there was no sign of John. No sound of him, either, and the lights were still off. “John?” he called again, and struggled to push himself up to stand. He gasped in pain as he stood upright, stretching sore and tired muscles in his back and belly. He held his overlarge belly with both hands, the whole curve of it solid and taut. His lower belly felt especially ripe and full, hot to the touch and smooth where his skin had stretched and stretched and lost its hair. 

 

Sherlock took a few slow, lumbering steps toward the front of the pen, placing each foot carefully in the sawdust as he felt his way through the dark. “John?” he called, louder this time, and in the direction of his friend’s office. He threaded his fingers through the chain link of the pen fence and leaned against it, trying to see in the dark. 

 

There was no response. Another clap of thunder sounded, unexpectedly, and Sherlock jumped a little in surprise. He felt the baby move in response, rolling slowly within him - not so much a roll as a writhe, with so little room to move now. He groaned in discomfort, feeling his skin ripple beneath his hands as the little limbs of his baby moved in the limited confines of his womb. “Ssh,” he murmured, pressing gently on the bulging skin of his belly. “It’s alright, don’t worry. John will come soon.” 

 

He made his way back to his cot and carefully sat back down. He was too awake now to go back to sleep, and too worried to want to. He felt vulnerable - what if something or someone made its way in here, and John couldn’t protect him? He was too pregnant and slow to run from any predators that might try to hurt him, and he didn’t know his way through the maze of hallways without John to guide him. He was a sitting duck. 

 

As if to punctuate his worries, he felt a cramp start to build low in his belly, spreading outward. He made a noise of pain and breathed through his nose as the cramp grew more intense, squeezing the whole of his belly and holding it tight for half a minute as Sherlock whimpered in pain. When it finally ebbed away he let out a sigh through his nose. He was trembling and his spine felt tight with fear and panic. Was it a contraction? Was the baby coming? “John,” he called again, louder, more desperate. “John, please! Help!” 

 

Still, no answer came. Sherlock laid down on his cot, trying to find a comfortable position and trying even harder to control his breathing and keep himself from panicking. It would do him no good, if the baby were finally coming, to panic. 

 

Another loud thunderclap sounded, followed by the electric crackle of lightning, which cast his pen in a pale sickly light for a brief second through the tiny windows. Sherlock pulled the blanket over himself and curled up as much as he could around his belly, and waited. 

 

He felt another contraction not long after the first. It gripped his belly tight and squeezed, and he breathed through it with gritted teeth.  _ Of all the times to come, little one, _ he thought, rubbing the hairless bottom of his swollen belly. He stayed where he was on the cot, wanting to conserve his energy and knowing that any pacing he did now would only exhaust him. His eyes watched the hallway, and his ears were tuned for any sound that might tell him help was on the way. 

 

The storm raged on for hours with no signs of letting up. The contractions had stayed steady, getting closer together as time went on. Eventually Sherlock rose from the cot, unable to overcome his instinctual need to keep moving and stay alert to protect himself and the baby he was carrying. He was leaning against the brick wall, whining through the end of a contraction, when suddenly the lights came on. 

 

“John?” he said hoarsely, blinking in the unexpected light. He lurched toward the wire fence to look down the hallway, but all the doors were still closed. He realized then that not all of the lights were on - only a few here or there were lit, casting the corridor and his pen in a dim low light. He looked up at the camera and heaved a sigh of relief when he saw the red light was on. John had said he would always be watching - maybe now he could see that Sherlock needed his help, and would come. 

 

He continued his slow pacing around the pen, glancing up at the camera and out at the hallway as he walked. John would be there any moment now, he was sure of it. 

 

Long minutes passed with no sign of John. No more lights turned on, and no doors opened. “John!” he shouted again, and shouted it at the camera, hoping desperately for any sign of his friend. John had promised that he would take care of Sherlock and make sure his baby was safe - he had promised he would help Sherlock, and be there when his time came. But his time was upon him, and John was nowhere to be seen. Sherlock was alone. 

 

He struggled through the next few contractions, leaning against the wall for support as his insides twisted and cramped. His belly became sore to the touch and he felt sick to his stomach; he retched a few times but nothing came up. He slid along the wall slowly until he reached a corner and then sank down slowly, crouching and letting the walls support his weight. His belly rippled and drew taut, and he cried out throatily as he struggled to stay upright.

 

A crack of lightning punctuated the end of the contraction and he panted, sweating, thighs trembling and spread wide as he held himself crouched in the corner. His neck was limp and his head rolled onto his shoulder, eyes half-shut and ears flicking lethargically. He whined in the lull between contractions, feeling miserable and panicked and exhausted. 

 

For a moment, Sherlock couldn’t tell if the loud noise was thunder or the building collapsing. He jerked alert and wrenched himself to stand, forcing his laboring body into a defensive position despite his terror and pain. He focused on the source of the noise and waited, on the edge of hysteria, for the predator to arrive. 

 

It was John, with a loud machine in his hands that screamed as it cut through the metal fence. Sparks flew and hissed as they landed in the sawdust of Sherlock’s pen, and the acrid smell hit his nose as the roar of the machine died and left his ears ringing in its wake. 

 

“John,” Sherlock rasped miserably, lurching feebly forward. “John, the baby. I’m. Having the baby.” 

 

“I know,” John said, sounding pained as he dropped the machine in the sawdust and walked briskly toward Sherlock. The fawn leaned into his friend’s touch and moaned quietly with relief, his eyelids falling shut for a moment. “I know you are, and I am so, so sorry it took me this long to get to you. The power went out and the gates all locked - I had to find a chainsaw, and I knew she was -- I knew I had to get to you, I’m so sorry, Sherlock. I’m here now, I’m here to help.” 

 

“She?” croaked Sherlock, sagging a little in John’s arms. He could feel another contraction stirring low in his belly and he dreaded it. 

 

“Ssh, don’t worry. Are you having a contraction? Oh, yeah,” John said, his words drowned out by Sherlock’s low moans as the cramp rolled through his aching belly. “That’s it, just like that. Try to breathe, I’m here now, you don’t have to worry anymore. It’s all going to be alright.” 

 

Sherlock let himself be coached through the contraction by John’s gentle reassurances, and when the contraction ended he sank down and laid on his side in the sawdust. The adrenaline of his fear had kept him going, and now that John was here, the hormone was abating and leaving Sherlock drained. “So tired,” he murmured, reaching for John’s hand as his friend knelt in front of him. He managed a weak smile when John’s thumb stroked over his cheekbone, his sweat-damp fur catching just a little in its wake. 

 

“I’m sure you are. Let’s get you comfortable now, and I can give you something for the pain. I think you’re about ready to have this baby.” John rose up and dusted off his knees. 

 

“I am having this baby,” Sherlock said blearily, looking up. 

 

John chuckled. “Yeah, I meant I think you’re going to start pushing soon. Have your waters broken yet?” Sherlock shook his head. “Well, they will soon, I bet. You stay there, I will be right the hell back.” 

 

Sherlock stayed lying on his side while John was gone. He could hear John moving around in the room across the hall where they kept the medicines and supplies, and he was back within minutes. “This is for the pain,” John said, uncapping a syringe and sliding the needle in Sherlock’s rump with a practiced hand. Sherlock barely winced. “And this one is also for the pain.” A second pinprick followed, slightly more painful than the last, but it was over within a few seconds. Almost immediately, a slight numbness spread over his back and hips, and he felt more clear headed than he had in hours. The throbbing in his spine eased and Sherlock breathed a sigh of relief. 

 

“Good,” John said, sounding satisfied. Sherlock opened his eyes and smiled at his friend, nodding. “You look better already. Let’s get you up, and I’ll see where you’re at.” 

 

Sherlock let John guide him up onto his cot. “Still hurts,” he said as John laid him down and guided his knees to fall to the sides. He let out a muffled whine when John slid his gloved fingers inside his raw, swollen opening. 

 

“Yeah, there’s only so much I can do, love,” John said apologetically, withdrawing his hand after a few more moments of discomfort. “That’s the most I can do for right now. As big as this fawnling is, you’re going to have a bit of a rough go at it, I think.” He rubbed Sherlock’s sore, hard belly gently with his clean hand. “You can do it, though. You would have done just fine even if I weren’t here.” He gave Sherlock’s full belly a loving pat and then helped Sherlock into a more comfortable position. 

 

“You’re ready to start pushing, when the spirit moves you,” John said, and Sherlock appreciated his kind tone. “You tell me how you want to stand, and I’ll help.” 

 

Sherlock reached forward with one arm and grabbed John by the neck, pulling him close. John made a surprised noise but let himself be drawn in. “Thank you,” Sherlock said, his arm wrapped around John’s shoulder and neck. 

 

John didn’t pull away when Sherlock released him, but gave the fawn a belated hug in return. Sherlock could feel his smile as their cheeks brushed. “Hey, you’re welcome.” He pulled back and smiled at Sherlock. “Now, let’s finally meet your baby.” 

 

Sherlock’s waters broke during the next contraction. He felt a release of pressure moments before his thighs were soaked with his amniotic fluid, leaving his fur sticky and matted. He took a few unsteady steps in surprise and felt a wave of fresh discomfort wash over his pelvis. It was like he’d lost the cushion between his baby’s head and his own frame, and it felt like he was being rubbed raw from the inside. 

 

“Ooh,” he moaned, shaking through the end of the contraction. He stumbled a little to catch his balance. 

 

“That sounded like a good one,” John said, steadying him. “Now that your waters have gone, things are going to happen a little faster.” He wrung out a flannel from a bucket of ice water and wiped Sherlock’s face with it. It was a small relief, but a relief nonetheless. “If you feel like you need to push, you don’t have to wait. You’re more than ready.” 

 

“Hurts,” Sherlock panted, feeling slow and exhausted and heavy. The baby’s head pressed bluntly against his insides, sending a dull, aching pain radiating outward from his core. His groin felt red hot and swollen, painfully sensitive and raw. The baby wasn’t moving at all, but rested with its back laying long and heavy along the bottom of his belly. Sherlock felt huge, and like he had no energy left for the task ahead of him. 

 

His exhaustion didn’t stop the next contraction from coming. Along with it came the intense, primal urge to bear down and expel. His grunts became staccato as he gathered his tattered strength and gave in to the need to push, and shoved with all his might. He pushed so hard that he shook in John’s arms, his ears roaring with blood. 

 

“Breathe,” came John’s voice, a dull echo. “Sherlock, breathe in, you have to breathe while you push.” John’s voice became a little clearer as Sherlock gasped in buckets of air. “You can’t hold your breath in, you’ll pass out. That was a mighty push, though, I saw you start to spread open a little.” 

 

“Big,” Sherlock wheezed, coughing a little. His throat felt raw. “So big.” 

 

“Her - head, you mean? I believe it,” John said, rubbing Sherlock’s shoulder. “Breathe in and out, nice and easy, on the next push. I’ll count for you, try to keep pushing until I get to ten, okay? You need to save your strength, you’ve got a big baby to push out.” 

 

Sherlock hardly had time to process what John had said before another cramp rippled through his belly. He was bearing down before he remembered he was supposed to breathe. He couldn’t focus on breathing and listening to John count and pushing all at the same time. He pushed until he heard John saying his name and felt him squeeze his shoulder. “Almost. You got the hang of it toward the end, I think. Keep pushing, Sherlock, you’re in the home stretch now.” 

 

He bore down again with the next contraction, and felt the baby’s head spread him achingly wide as he pushed it down and out. His hips ground and he gritted his teeth to bite back a cry when he felt the head pressing painfully through his tight pelvis, spreading his bones wide where they weren’t meant to move at all. The contraction ended but the baby hadn’t moved much, and Sherlock let out a high whine and rolled his hips, frantically trying to ease the pain. 

 

“What’s happening? Why are you - does it hurt?” John’s voice sounded worried, and then exasperated. “Of course it hurts, moron, of - spread your knees a little bit and rock side to side, yes, just like that,” John said, nervously guiding a gasping Sherlock into a different position. Thankfully he felt some relief with the rocking, and the blood stopped roaring in his ears. 

 

“This is...a very big baby,” John said, running his hand over Sherlock’s sparsely furred aching side. “I need you to push really hard on the next contraction. If you can get the head out, I think I can help with the rest.” 

 

“Already pushing hard,” Sherlock said miserably, a wave of exhaustion washing over him. He wasn’t sure he had the strength to push any harder. 

 

“I know. Just...give me all you’ve got, okay? I know you can do it.” John kneaded Sherlock’s tight shoulders and rubbed the base of one ear affectionately. 

 

When the next contraction twisted his insides, Sherlock gritted his teeth and shoved with all his might. The baby’s head caught on that same place inside him and made him want to scream, but he bit his lip until he tasted blood and pushed even harder. He pushed until his sides trembled, until he felt a sick sort of popping sensation - and he could feel the baby’s head had passed the place where it had been stuck. He heaved a sigh of relief, but the pain wasn’t over yet. 

 

The baby’s body felt thick inside him, spreading him wide open as it passed through his narrow hips. He felt like he needed to push even now, in the lull between contractions. He listened dully to John’s distant encouragements and gathered his strength and focus. 

 

He bore down again when the pain kicked up, and groaned hollowly as his muscles strained to birth his baby. His groin was on fire, burning, but the pain felt like it was happening to someone else. He felt John’s blunt fingertips between his legs, stretching him wider, tearing him open to let his baby’s body pass. The contraction ended and another one began seconds later. He cried out, throat raw, and his frayed muscles worked again to shove. 

 

Finally, he felt something broad slide free of his body, and felt the wet heat of it between his thighs. “The head is out!” John crowed, and Sherlock could feel him supporting the weight of his baby’s head in his cupped hands. “Give me one last huge push for the shoulders, Sherlock, and you’ll have a baby.” 

 

Sherlock sobbed and pushed as hard as his spent body could manage. He was on hands and knees, trying to push the baby out, but he had no strength left to spare. Exhausted, he reached back to grasp one thigh, using it to pull against. His fingers brushed his damp thigh - and then he felt the wet, slick, paper-thin ear of his baby, flicking weakly against his fingers. He made a throaty noise and forced himself to sit up, ignoring the needle-sharp pain in his spine and the ache in his hips and the pull of strained muscles in his belly. 

 

Sherlock spread his knees wide and leaned forward, reaching around his belly and between his legs. He could feel his baby’s head, and the shoulders emerging behind, and as he cradled the head of his firstborn in his hands, he gave one last hard push and delivered the rest of the baby’s body into the world. 

 

“My baby,” he rasped, his voice catching. He drew the baby’s slick body from his own and pulled it as far as he could, up over the rounded curve of his belly until he felt the sick tug of the umbilical cord pulling at his insides. He made a noise of pain and lowered the baby to ease the pull, and let out a rough breath as he opened his eyes and looked down. 

 

“Come on, little one,” John was saying, his fingers fumbling, rubbing the fawnling’s ear between thumb and forefinger, and swiping at its tiny pursed lips. Sherlock’s arms shook as he held it there, waiting anxiously for his baby to make a sound. “Come on, come on, cry for us.” 

 

The baby twisted up its face, took in a defiant inhalation of breath, and its first cries pierced the sounds of Sherlock’s heavy breathing, which quickly turned to waves of happy tears. 

 

“My baby,” Sherlock crooned, rocking his baby gently on his swollen belly while tears dripped down his sweaty face. “Hello, hello, my sweet baby.” 

 

“That’s it, just like that, little one. You keep on crying, get those little lungs working. Oh, what a lovely sound,” John said, sounding overjoyed and tired. He worked quickly, wiping fluid from the baby’s face and body before helping Sherlock wrap the little body in a clean towel. He clamped off the umbilical cord and waited a few minutes before cutting it, and helped Sherlock lift the fawnling to hold it up on his chest. 

 

“Did you look to see whether you have a daughter or a son?” John asked Sherlock, helping him into a more comfortable position on his side in a makeshift nest. “Or did I give it away?” 

 

Sherlock hadn’t even thought to look. He’d been so focused on the baby’s arrival that he hadn’t thought any further. He peeled back the towel and smiled - John’s slip ups made sense now. “A daughter,” he said, lifting her and quieting her squalls with gentle rocking movements. He kissed her forehead and buried his nose in the fine, damp fur of her head, his eyes falling shut. 

 

“She took her time, but she’s here and she’s healthy,” John said, gently stroking Sherlock’s ear. “We’ll get you cleaned up, and then I’m moving you out of this pen and into a proper bed. You need real rest to recover from a birth like that.” 

 

John made good on his promise, and by the time full power was restored to Baskerville, he had been carefully washed and moved into a bedroom - a real bedroom, no cameras in the corner. John weighed Sherlock’s fawnling and settled her in next to her mother, and she was sleeping peacefully in the crook of Sherlock’s arm, tired from her entrance into the world. 

 

“Have you thought of a name?” John asked. Sherlock nodded. “Let me in on the secret?” 

 

“Briar,” Sherlock said, brushing the pad of his thumb over the baby’s sleep-pursed lips. She flicked an ear and twitched her cheek, but stayed sleeping otherwise. 

 

“That’s lovely.” John smiled and leaned back in his chair. “I think you set two records today, by the way. One I know for sure, the other’s just an educated guess.” Sherlock gave him a curious look. “For one thing, young Briar is the first fawnling to ever be born in captivity. Or, at least, born not in nature. And this one I’m just guessing, but...I believe Briar might also be the largest fawnling born from the Baskerville herds.” 

 

“Lucky me,” Sherlock said, drawing Briar closer to him. She barely stirred as he gathered her into his arms, cradling her close. “Thank you for helping me. I could not have had her without you,” he said to John, and then looked back down at his newborn daughter. “She’s beautiful.” 

 

“She looks just like her mother,” John said, smiling. “So, yeah, I’d say you’re right.” 


End file.
